The Inner Circle (16 page)

“Why would—?”

“Tell me who Iris is,” Clementine says, reminding me that the people who know you the longest are the best at finding your weak spots.

“Why’re you bringing up Iris?”

“I heard Orlando say her name yesterday—and within two seconds, you had the same pain on your face that you have now, like someone kicked your balls in. I know the feeling… y’know how many DJ jobs I’ve been fired from? So what happened to Iris? Is she dead?”

“She’s not dead. She’s an old girlfriend. We broke up.”

“Okay, so she dumped you for another guy.”

“That’s not—”

“Beecher, I’m not trying to upset you… or pry,” she says, meaning every word. “The point is, whatever it was—however Iris hurt you—you’re over her now, right?”

“Absolutely,” I insist. “Of course.”

“Okay, you’re not over her,” she says as I stand there, surprised by the sudden lump that balloons in my throat and the familiar sting of self-doubt that Iris planted so deeply in my chest. “But you will be, Beecher. And that’s what you did for me yesterday. For my whole life, I’ve wondered who my father might be. And now, thanks to you, I
know
. And yes, it’s not the easiest answer. In fact, it may just be… it’s kinda the
Guinness Book of World Records
crappiest answer of all time. But it’s an
answer
,” she says, handing the present back to me. “And I appreciate that.”

Looking down at the present, I give a tug to one of the scotch-taped seams. As I tear the paper aside, I spot the turn buttons on what looks like the back of a picture frame. It’s definitely a picture frame. But it’s not until I flip it over that I see the actual picture inside.

It’s a color photo of me in seventh grade, back when my mom used to shop for whatever Garanimals shirt I was wearing that day. But what I notice most is the other seventh grader standing next to me in the photo with the wide, surprisingly bucktoothed grin. Young Clementine.

The thing is, back then, we never had a photo of just the two of us.

“H-How’d you get this?” I ask.

“I made it. From our old class photo in Ms. Spicer’s class. You were standing on the left. I was on the right. I had to cut us out with an X-Acto knife since Tim Burton movies made me genuinely scared of scissors, but it still made our heads kinda octagonal-shaped, so sorry about that.”

I look down at the frame, where both of us have our arms flat at our sides in standard class-photo positions. Our heads are definitely octagons.

“You don’t like it?” she asks.

“No, I like it… I love it. I just… If you had scanned it in—I feel bad you had to ruin the actual photo.”

“I didn’t ruin anything,” she insists. “I cut out the only two people I cared about in that class.”

I look up at Clementine, then back down at the photo, which is choppy, poorly made, and completely unflattering.

But it’s of us.

A smile grips my cheeks so hard, they actually hurt.

“By the way, don’t think you get a pass on that Garanimals shirt,” she tells me as the video continues to play onscreen behind her. Her back is to it, so she can’t see it, but it’s the part where Nico is about to step out of the crowd.

“Listen, I gotta run,” she adds as a man with black buzzed hair, a big bulbous nose, and a bright yellow jumpsuit steps into the frame and raises his gun. My God—he
does
look like her. “They told me to come back in an hour,” she says.

“Who did? What’re you talking about?”

“The guards. At St. Elizabeths.”

“Wait. As in
mental institution St. Elizabeths
?”

“Nico’s there. Same place as John Hinckley—the one who shot Reagan. It’s only ten minutes from here.”

“Can we please rewind one second? You went to see Nico!?”

“I can’t get in unless he approves me first. That’s how they have to do it on his ward. I’m waiting to get approved.”

“But he’s—”

“I know who he is—but what’m I supposed to do, Beecher? Sit at home and do my nails? I’ve been waiting to meet this man for thirty years. How can I not—?”

Pop, pop, pop.

Onscreen, the gunshots are muffled. As Nico steps out of the crowd, his head’s cocked just slightly—and he’s almost… he’s smiling.

Pop, pop, pop.

With her back still to the monitor, Clementine doesn’t turn at the gunshots. But she does flinch, her body startled by each and every one.

“Shots fired! Shots fired!” the agents yell.

“Get down! Get back!”

“GOD GAVE POWER TO THE PROPHETS…” Nico shouts, his rumbling voice drowned out by all the screaming.

The camera jerks in every direction, panning past the fans in the stands. Spectators run in every direction. And by the time the camera fights its way back to focus, Nico is being pulled backward, lost in instant chaos as he’s clawed to the ground by a swarm of Secret Service agents. In the background, two aides go down, the victims of stray bullets. One of them lies facedown holding his cheek. Luckily, the President and his wife get rushed into their limo and escape unharmed. It wasn’t until later that Nico tracked them down and killed the First Lady.

In the corner of YouTube, I spot the viewcount on the bottom right:
14,727,216 views.

It seems like a lot.

But in truth, fourteen million viewers are meaningless.

All that matters is this single one.

“Please don’t look at me like that, Beecher. I can do this,” she insists, even though I haven’t said a word.

I don’t care how strong she’s pretending to be. I saw the way, even though she knew those gunshots were coming, she flinched at each pop. And the way, ever since Nico appeared onscreen, she still won’t look at the monitor.

She knows what’s waiting for her.

But she also knows there’s no avoiding it.

“You’re telling me if it were your dad, you wouldn’t go see him now?” she asks.

I stay silent, thinking back to my first year at the Archives. My dad died at the age of twenty-six, in a stupid car accident on his way to enlist for the first Gulf War. He didn’t get killed fighting for his country. He didn’t die a hero. He didn’t even die from friendly fire. Those people are given medals. But the grunts who aren’t even grunts yet because they’re driving to the recruiting office when some nutbag crashes into him on a bridge and kills everyone on impact? They die as nobodies. Their lives are half-lived. And during my first year here, I spent every single lunch hour going through old army records, trying to figure out which platoon he would’ve been in, and what kind of adventures he would’ve had if he’d made it to the enlistment office.

“If you want, I can go with you,” I finally say.

“What?”

“To St. Elizabeths. I can go with you. Y’know… if you want.”

I wait for her to smile. To say thanks. Instead, she shakes her head. “You can’t.”

“Sure I can.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Actually…”

“I
know
your dad’s dead, Benjy,” she says, using the nickname only my mom uses. “You think I don’t remember that? When we were little, you not having a father… You have any idea what that meant to me? How
not alone
that made me feel?”

The balloon in my throat expands, catching me off guard.

“But to have this chance right now…” She stares down at the old photo—the one of us—still refusing to face the video behind her. “My mom used to tell me that the best part of music—even as a DJ—was that when you go to a new city, you get to be a brand-new person,” she adds. “And I chose Virginia because—all the pictures seemed to have horses in them. Horses are calming, y’know? But then to find out—of all the places I could’ve picked—I’m ten minutes from… from
him
,” she says, thumbing back at the screen as Nico’s video wraps up. “I’m not saying it’s a sign—but I am saying… maybe some things are meant to be. Like reconnecting with you.” Before I can say a word, she adds, “Besides, I want what’s best for you, Beecher. And right now, bringing you to meet a delusional sociopath—even one who’s been calmed down by medication—is not what your life needs at this moment. This is something I think I’m supposed to do myself.”

“I understand.”

“You
do
?” she asks.

“Don’t you get it? I want what’s best for you too.”

She looks up at me and grins. “That homemade photograph really made you mushy, didn’t it?” she asks.

“Hey, Beecher!
Phone!
” one of the staffers calls out from the desk behind us.

“Whoever it is, tell them—”

“It’s Tot. Says not to let you give any lame excuses. Says it’s important. He’s on hold.”

I shake my head, ready to ignore the call.

“He says don’t ignore it!” the aide calls back. “On hold!”

“Just gimme one sec,” I tell Clementine as I grab the phone at the circulation desk, which is just a few feet away.

“What’re you doing with her?” Tot asks before I can even say hello.

“Pardon?”

“Clementine. You went down to buzz her in. That was twenty minutes ago.”

I look over at Clementine, who’s finally turned back to the computer screen, where YouTube has offered a variety of recommendations for the next video to click on. Even from here, I can see what she’s looking at as bits of bright yellow jumpsuit peek out from each video option.

“Is this really that important, Tot?”

“You tell me. I found the cart for your guy Dustin Gyrich,” he says, referring to the last person who requested a copy of
Entick’s Dictionary
. “Now, do you want to hear his connection to the President or not?”

24

I’ll call you when I’m done,” Clementine says, stepping away from the computer and heading for the lobby. “I gotta go.”

“Good. Let her,” Tot says through the phone.

“Clemmi, just wait!” I call out as she pulls her coat on.

“Let her be,” Tot says. “Whatever she’s got going on, you’ve got enough disasters to deal with.”

“What’re you talking about?” I ask.

“I told you. Dustin Gyrich.”

“So he’s the last person to request the…” I look around, and I swear, in this wide mint green room, every person, from the old ladies to the young grad student, is looking directly at me.

“Yeah… to request the dictionary,” Tot says in my ear. “That’s the thing, though. At first I thought it was odd that he just happened to request the dictionary on the exact same day that President Wallace was here for his reading tour. But when I pulled the full record, well… Dustin Gyrich—whoever he is—has requested
Entick’s Dictionary
fourteen different times, which isn’t that unusual—”

“Get to the point, Tot.”

“The point is, when I matched Gyrich’s dates up with a calendar, guess who else happened to be visiting this very building on every one of those days? I’ll give you a hint. It rhymes with
President
.”

Across from me, Clementine buttons the top button on her coat and turns toward the main lobby to leave.

“Just wait,” I whisper to her. “I’ll only be a minute.”

“You’ll be way more than a minute,” Tot says through the phone. “Unless you’re no longer understanding the bad news I’m delivering.”

“Thirty seconds,” I promise Clementine.

She pauses a moment, like she really does want to wait. But as she did when the red curtain went up during the Battle of the Bands, Clementine stands there a moment, lifts her chin, and buries all her fears in whatever place she’s come to keep them. The difference is, she’s no longer facing testy tenth graders. She’s facing her father. The destroyer.

“I’ll be okay,” she insists, even though I didn’t ask her. Her eyes blink quicker than usual, just like when she flinched at those gunshots. Before I can argue, she’s headed down the hallway, past the security desk, and through the automatic doors that take her outside into the cold. I look down at the homemade photograph of our younger selves. It’s the second time in two days that I realize I’m seeing the soft side of her no one else knows. The part she shares with no one. Ever since Iris… I forgot how good a simple crush can feel.

But it’s not just the crush. There are some people in your life who bring back old memories. And there are others—your first kiss, your first love, your first sex—who, the moment you see them, bring a spark… and something far more potent. They bring back your old life and, with that, potential. And possibilities. And the feeling that if you were back in that time, life could be so very different from where you’re stuck right now. That’s the most tantalizing thing Clementine offers. I want my potential back.

“You hearing me, Beecher?” Tot shouts in my ear. “Over the past four months, every single time the President of the United States has come to this building, this guy Gyrich takes
this
copy of the dictionary—”